


Ambush

by Josselin



Series: Leon [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Princess,” said Govart, grinning cruelly and imbuing the word with a complete lack of respect. He spat into the hole. Laurent didn’t flinch. “We have unfinished business.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Mishima](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishima) and [Punk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk/pseuds/Punk) for wonderful assistance and encouragement while writing!

_They were taking the best of their soldiers, those elite few who had excelled in the games: Jord who had won short sword, Lydos of the trident, Aktis the spear thrower, the young, triple-crowned Pallas, Lazar, who had whistled at him, and a handful of their best spear throwers and swordsmen. Laurent’s addition to the expedition was Paschal, and Damen tried not to think too deeply about the reasons why Laurent thought it necessary to bring a physician._

Nikandros knew that they had been braced for an ambush or an attack the entire expedition. 

But there had been no proper fighting. Pallas and Aktis had only taken out their spears to catch fish for dinner. All of the trip had been subterfuge and deceit, hiding and disguise.

When they were attacked by riders in the Regent’s livery from over the ridge, Nikandros suddenly panicked. They had not explicitly decided upon a field commander. He had a momentary sinking feeling in his stomach that while the Akielons were disciplined and would clearly all look to Damen, that the Veretians would look to Laurent, or someone else among their own men, and the already outnumbered soldiers would be further divided by the failure of coordination within their faction.

His moment of worry was needless. The Veretian men--Lazar, Jord, even Laurent himself--all looked to Damen for direction. Damen directed all of them without hesitation. Nikandros remembered that Damen had been promoted to the commander of the Veretian prince’s armies even when he had been a slave without recognition of his identity. 

Damen gave brief instructions for how to handle the attack. They watched the Regent’s men approach. Laurent was closely watching the approaching riders. “Is that Govart?” Damen said, when the riders were close enough to make out their faces. There was no time for Laurent to respond before the fighting was upon them.

The men who had been chosen for their small expedition were all strong fighters; they had been chosen for just that reason. But they were outnumbered. Ten strong soldiers with the liability of two women, a potential traitor, and a physician, were not a match for the size of the troop that rode over the ridge. 

Nikandros saw Jord fighting well, as skilled with the short sword in battle as he had been in the gaming. Aktis took a bad blow to his left arm from one of the armored riders, and then he was trying to shore up Pallas’s weak side but not able to do much. 

Several minutes in, the direction of the skirmish was settled when the heavy butt of a spear knocked Damen on the back of the head. Nikandros watched as his king’s eyes rolled back in his head. Damen seemed to fall to the ground very slowly. 

The troop must have had orders to take them alive--at least some of them--because instead of finishing them off on the field, they were rounded up, tied, and loaded roughly into one of the wagons. The bolts of silk fabric were dumped out of the wagon and dropped into the mud of the field. 

Nikandros landed in the wagon on his side, awkwardly half on top of Pallas, with his nose pressing against Pallas’s shoulder. 

“Should we fight?” Pallas whispered.

“Wait,” Nikandros said quietly. With Damen unconscious and their hands tied behind their backs, it would be prudent to wait for another opportunity. Pallas waited.

One of the Regent’s men covered the interior of the wagon with muddy silk fabric unrolled from one of the bolts, and the only light filtered through the fine gold embroidery of the material. 

They traveled for some time. Nikandros tried to think of the terrain, and where they might be that was within wagon distance of the place where they had been taken. He had been over the area on maps with Damen and Laurent as they had planned the expedition, but he was less familiar with this area of Akielos than he was with Delpha. He knew of Heston’s keep, and the area around Heston’s villa had many vineyards. But he did not know of other holdings.

After more than an hour, the wagons came to a stop. There were more noises outside the wagons, as though the driver the troop surrounding them were greeting other men at their destination. A dog barked at the new arrivals.

Someone pulled the silk off of them. Pallas shifted underneath Nikandros. They were unloaded from the wagon, not gently. Blinking in the light, Nikandros tried to look around and was cuffed for his attempt. 

They were loaded into a cellar. 

It was not a proper dungeon -- a keep large enough to have a proper dungeon would have been a landmark that Nikandros would have known, or would have been a much longer journey. It was a household cellar, a dirt pit dug into the earth to store barrels of ale and root vegetables. There was a wooden ladder lying on the ground next to the entrance on the surface, and Nikandros guessed that it was typically lowered down into the cellar to let people climb in and out. In the transition of the cellar to a makeshift prison, the ladder had been removed.

The drop to the floor of the cellar was about the height of a tall man, and not far to fall, but Nikandros was pushed in before he could realize what was happened, and he fell awkwardly half on top of Pallas. Lazar helped pull both of them out of the patch of sunlight from the cellar opening in time for Aktis to be tossed in, and then Damen was pitched in like a sack of grain, still unconscious. Nikandros and Pallas attempted to catch him so that he did not become more injured in his fall. 

A wooden platform was put over the top of the cellar. 

Paschal pushed forward. “Let me see him,” he said, gesturing to where Damen lay on the ground, and the men shifted around in the cramped space to make room for the physician to tend the king.

Nikandros inventoried the men. Lydos was missing. Aktis was injured. Damen was injured. Laurent, Pallas, Lazar, and Jord had their hands tied but were not hurt. Guion and his wife and Jokaste were not with them.

“Is he alive?” said Laurent to Paschal, and for the first time Nikandros heard a note of worry in the Veretian prince’s voice. 

“Yes,” said Paschal, and it felt as though everyone in the cellar let out a breath of relief. 

The wooden platform was suddenly shifted off of the cellar entrance. A very large man stood over the hole, blocking the sunlight as he looked down at them. 

“Govart,” said Laurent, sounding cool, with nothing of the concern that had tinged his voice a moment before.

“Princess,” said Govart, grinning cruelly and imbuing the word with a complete lack of respect. He spat into the hole. Laurent didn’t flinch. “We have unfinished business.”

“You left so abruptly at Fortaine,” said Laurent, in a tone of mock regret. “I thought you might be dead.” Nikandros looked from Govart to Laurent and back again, wondering anew what had happened that the Veretian prince had not appeared at Charcy with reinforcements as Damen had expected.

“That one,” Govart said, pointing Laurent out to his cohorts. The ladder was lowered into the cellar. “None of your tricks,” Govart cautioned Laurent. “Your friends are expendable.” 

Two of Govart’s men climbed down the ladder and grabbed hold of Laurent’s arms. He was pushed up the ladder toward the surface. On the third step, Laurent tripped, off balance from his hands being tied and the soldiers manhandling him. Govart grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and levered him up to the surface, dropping him on the ground. “We’re going to have some fun,” said Govart. 

Nikandros did not like this man Govart.

Govart looked back down the hole. “Take the slave, too,” he told his men. “Insurance for your good behavior,” he said to Laurent. His men shoved Paschal away from Damen and hauled Damen up between them. Pallas bristled at this rough treatment of his king. Nikandros shook his head very slightly at him. If they fought now, the cellar prison was going to become a cellar mass grave. Govart’s men lifted Damen up to pass him out of the cellar.

The wooden platform was shifted into position over the cellar again. They were in darkness once again.

Paschal tended to Aktis’s arm. None of them were certain what had happened to Lydos in the skirmish. Pallas said an old fashioned prayer for safety under his breath.

“Govart,” said Jord finally, disgusted. 

“You know him,” said Nikandros.

“He used to be the captain,” said Lazar.

“Laurent should have killed him from the start,” said Jord. Lazar made a noise that sounded as though he was in agreement.

“The prince has fought this man before?” said Nikandros. Any intelligence on their enemy was helpful information.

“Govart insulted the prince’s family,” said Jord. “They fought, and Laurent had him turned off.”

“At Fortaine, before we were to rendez-vous at Charcy,” said Nikandros.

“No, before that. Close to Nesson,” said Jord.

“What happened Charcy?” said Nikandros. 

“I don’t know,” said Jord. He gestured at Lazar. “We were with Damen.”

Nikandros lowered his voice, and spoke in Akielon, in case Govart’s men were listening to their conversation. “Is this some kind of deception--”

Lazar didn’t have much Akielon at all, and looked to Jord. Jord shook his head. “No. Or if it is, not one that was shared with me. But Govart--he is Laurent’s uncle's man, and he is a problem.”

The cellar settled into an uneasy silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Damen’s head throbbed with the kind of painful fuzziness that accompanied a hard blow. He could sense himself coming closer to waking at some moments, and then dropping into oblivion again. He had no sense of time. He could tell at one moment that he was being moved, and then some indeterminate time later that he was not being moved. His head hurt consistently.

He faded away from the pain, and then floated back to the surface. His head hurt so much that it took longer to register the other portions of his body that also hurt. The side of his leg was scraped, like he had fallen on rocks or been dragged across the ground. He tried to open his eyes, and then groaned and gave up on that. 

The next time that he surfaced there were voices, but he could not make them out before he had drifted away again on the current of the pain throbbing in his head. 

The next time he felt closer to the surface than he had previously. His head still hurt. He was someplace that smelled strongly of dog, and there was someone curled up next to him. The ground was cold and the body curled against him was warm. He faded out again.

He awoke. He could still not tell how much time was passing. He tried to raise his hand to the throbbing place on his head to determine the damage and he discovered that his hands were tied behind his back. He tried to speak, to ask for help, and his throat was dry and he managed a throaty growl.

He drifted again. When he returned he remembered that he was bound. His throat still hurt. He tried to open his eyes again. This time he managed to part them a sliver. The place was dimly lit. There were two figures. There was a very large man, and there was a man whose head was a yellow blur. He closed his eyes again but he did not immediately fall back asleep. He could hear a noise, as though someone were calling to him. The sound was muffled, like a faint echo coming across a deep valley. 

He tried to move his hands again and they were still restrained. He tried to remember where he was. He had been at Ravenel--no, Marlas--no. Traveling. He had been traveling with the wagons. Jokaste. Laurent--he shifted suddenly, and a fresh wave of pain rolled through his head. Laurent. There was an important thought there, but the pain pulled him under again. 

He awoke again. He had the sense that the time that passed between waking moments was growing shorter. He could hear a voice, but it took slow moments for it to connect in his mind with the speaker’s identity. “I dispatched Guion already,” the voice said. “But he said to do you more slowly. Have some fun, first.” 

There was a period of silence. “I almost miss your smart remarks, but the gag is better. Or is it having your slave with you? Don’t you want to watch him lose a finger? Or--something else?”

Damen placed the voice suddenly, his mind going back to fetching Govart from the stables.

He heard a slap, the kind of sound that a belt made hitting flesh. 

He opened his eyes.

Shapes came into focus. He was in a room with two other men. One of the men was Laurent. Laurent was bent over the seat of a rickety wooden chair. His arms and head hung off one side of the chair, his legs off the other side. He was tied at the wrists and at the ankles. He had a cloth wrapped around his face and tied at his nape. His clothing was in disarray. His jacket was hanging off of one arm, his shirt pushed up and bunched around his neck. His pants were pushed down his legs and hobbling him as much as the rope on his ankles. His midsection and his behind were exposed, and there were several red welts on his back.

Govart was standing behind Laurent. Govart had undone his own pants, and removed his belt, and he held it in his right hand, doubled over in a loose grip.

Damen wrenched at his hands and tried to get his feet under him at the same time. He was not successful. His wrists were not tied with rope like Laurent’s, but fastened with rusted iron manacles to an iron brace built into the wall.

“Look who decided to join us,” said Govart. He used the hand not holding the belt to jerk on Laurent’s hair, pulling his head up. Damen could see the gag covering the lower half of Laurent’s face more clearly with his head pulled back. Laurent’s eyes widened when they saw that Damen was awake. He shook his head slightly in Govart’s grip. 

Govart dropped his grip on Laurent’s hair. 

“If you touch him, you’re dead,” Damen said, making his tongue work despite the dryness in his throat. “I will kill you.”

Govart smirked. “I’ve already touched him.” He waggled the fingers of one hand suggestively, and then lowered his hand until Damen could no longer see what he was doing, his view blocked by Laurent’s body.

Damen flicked his eyes back to Laurent’s face. Laurent had lowered his head and turned his face away from Damen. 

Damen struggled against his restraints. He pulled so hard that he nearly dislocated his shoulder. One of the bracings moved the tiniest amount.

“You woke up just in time to watch me fuck your bitch,” said Govart. “I thought the only one he’d ever get a hard-on for was his brother.” 

Govart wasn’t looking at Damen. He was looking at whatever his hand was doing behind Laurent. “Princess is really tight,” said Govart.

“I’m going to kill you,” Damen said. His throat still hurt but he forced the words out.

“I can make it worse for your bitch,” Govart said. He stepped in closer behind Laurent, close enough that they might be touching, close enough to--Damen couldn’t see what he was doing. 

Damen turned slightly to brace his feet against the wall as he fought against the iron restraints. The stone wall the brackets were built into was old, and the bracket moved again the smallest amount. Dust from the stone fell to the ground. 

Laurent made a noise behind the gag. Damen pulled harder.

Govart stepped away from Laurent and walked around the back of the chair. He struck Laurent’s behind with his belt again as he walked, and Damen could see Laurent’s body flinch.

Standing in front of Laurent, Govart fisted a hand in his hair to lift Laurent’s face again. He dropped the belt on the ground. He used his hand to tug the cloth gag out of Laurent’s mouth. Laurent coughed reflexively as the cloth fell to the floor. 

Govart held his own cock near Laurent’s face. "If you even think of biting me,” said Govart, “I'll kill your slave, slowly, while you watch." Damen hoped that Laurent would bite him.

“Damen,” Laurent said, and his voice sounded like a whisper, dry from the gag. “Don’t look.”

Damen had been straining to reach Govart for so long that he almost didn’t realize the moment the bracket came out of the wall. One moment he was wrenching at the bindings, the next there was a metallic noise as the bracket came out of the stone and he was already halfway across the dirt floor. He lost his balance slightly as the wall no longer held him back. His head throbbed.

Laurent looked over, and then Damen watched Laurent take in what had just happened, and offer his assistance. He reared up suddenly, bracing himself on the chair, and headbutted Govart, the back of his head knocking into Govart’s chin.

Govart swore, and took a step back, and Damen regained his balance while Govart backhanded Laurent casually.

The next thing Damen was aware of was Laurent’s voice again, calling his name. Laurent’s voice was a desperate whisper, rasping and dry. “Damianos,” Laurent said. “Damen. He’s dead. Damen.”

Damen looked up. Laurent had rolled off of the chair and squirmed closer to him; his hands and ankles were still tied and his clothes were half off. Govart’s body was on the ground under Damen, motionless. Govart’s face had been beaten to the point where he might not be recognized. The iron manacles were still around Damen’s wrists, but dripped with Govart’s blood.

“He’s dead,” Laurent said again.

Damen met Laurent’s eyes. He couldn’t speak. The eye contact seemed to tell Laurent that Damen was no longer in his berserker haze.

“There’s a key in his pocket,” said Laurent, nodding at the manacles. “And check if he has a knife.”

Damen obeyed, because blindly obeying Laurent felt like the only thing he was capable of. He found the key, and after awkwardly trying to do it himself, handed it to Laurent, who managed to free Damen in only a second even though Laurent’s own hands were still tied.

“I think my finger is broken,” Damen said, and then cursed himself, because that was the least important thing he could have said at that moment.

“Check his boot for a knife,” said Laurent. 

Damen did, and there was a small dagger in the right boot sheath. Damen cut the rope binding Laurent’s hands awkwardly, sawing at it with the dagger and using his left hand since his right hand had the broken finger. 

The ropes fell away, and Laurent flexed his fingers. There were red robe burns around Laurent’s wrists where he’d been bound. Damen turned his attention to cutting the rope at Laurent’s ankles.

After he did this, Laurent seemed to be eyeing him and making a judgement of strategy. “Is your vision clear?” said Laurent. He offered an explanation. “We need to find the others. We are likely to encounter resistance. I am not sure which of us should have the knife.”

Damen wordlessly handed the knife to Laurent. Laurent hesitated before taking it, and took a moment to fix his clothing. His shirt and jacket were pulled into place and covered the red welts on his back, his jacket sleeves covered the rope burns on his wrists. The lacing on his pants seemed to have been cut, he tied it awkwardly with a short knot. Laurent took the knife.

Laurent took a moment to explain the strategy. They were to create a diversion, then go for the cellar where the others were probably still trapped. 

Laurent was in charge of the diversion, which appeared to involve lighting the chicken coop on fire on the opposite side of the stables. Damen grabbed a shovel from the stables to use as a weapon. 

One of the men guarding the cellar went off to help with the chicken coop. The other was dispatched by knocking him over the head with the shovel. Damen’s own head throbbed in sympathy.

Damen shifted the wooden panel off of the entrance to the cellar. He peered over the edge. Nikandros looked up at him, and his face turned to an expression of relief as he recognized Damen. Damen saw the ladder near to the cellar entrance, and hauled it over to the hole, passing the end down to Nikandros. His friends climbed out. 

Nikandros nodded at the blood covering Damen. “Where is the prince?” 

“He’s coming.”

“And Govart?” said Nikandros.

“Dead.”

Laurent came from behind the stable and signaled them all to run for the tree line. 

The escape, for Damen, was again something of a blur. His head hurt. He tried to pay attention to the ground right in front of him so he did not trip and fall over. Nikandros was giving directions for their movement, but Damen was doing a poor job paying attention, and every so often Laurent had to call Damen’s name to refocus him. Laurent’s voice was becoming less of a rasp as time passed.

They were intercepted by one of their own patrols, fortunately, and then they were riding back to the main camp. 

They dismounted the horses near the king’s tent, and Damen caught hold of Laurent’s forearm reflexively. He hadn’t meant it to hold Laurent to him--he meant it because he himself felt like a small child in danger of wandering away from his mother in a busy marketplace. Laurent was his only constant.

He realized after a moment that grabbing at Laurent was probably a bad idea, because if nothing else, Laurent had rope burns all over his arms. He let Laurent’s arm drop again and instead stared at him helplessly.

“You should probably wash,” said Laurent. Damen was still covered in blood.

Paschal appeared. “I want to look at your head.”

“You should look after Laurent,” said Damen.

Paschal cast his eyes over Laurent. “Is he injured?”

“No,” said Laurent. “Damen, come in the tent and sit down before you fall over.”

Damen permitted himself to be led into the tent. Laurent pushed on his shoulders and Damen sat on a small wooden stool. Paschal came to look at the bump on the back of his head. 

Laurent brought over a small copper basin full of water and a stack of fabric. It was odd to see him carrying such things like a servant or a slave. Paschal used one of the cloths to gently clean Damen’s head. Damen sat numbly and let Laurent wipe off his hands. 

Paschal asked questions about Damen’s injury and Laurent answered them. 

How long had Damen been unconscious? Perhaps another half hour after they had been taken from the cellar. 

Was Damen mixing up any words, saying something that he did not intend? Exchanging one phrase for another in ways that did not make sense? No, not that Laurent had heard. 

How was his vision? Laurent thought it was adequate, but Paschal turned this question to Damen himself. 

“Are you seeing double?”

“No,” said Damen. 

Paschal completed his examination. “I think it is a concussion,” he said, which was an unfamiliar word to Damen in Veretian, but he had a guess. “Do you know what that is?”

“A bruising of the brain?” said Damen, trying for a literal translation of the Akielon term for it. 

Paschal nodded. 

“Yes,” said Damen. “It is common enough, in sports. I have been hit on the head before.”

“Of course you have,” Laurent muttered under his breath. 

“Then you know you must rest,” said Paschal. “To avoid further injury to your head,” he glanced at Laurent briefly and then tried for a persuasive strategy. “This is necessary to ensure your future balance and ability to swing a sword.”

There was a moment of quiet. Damen set his jaw stubbornly. “I will rest,” he said, “but only if Laurent agrees to let you tend to his injuries.”

Laurent looked at him impassively. “I’m not hurt. There are worse-off men--”

Damen stood up. “You’re right, we both have much important business to attend--”

Laurent interrupted. “Fine.”

Laurent’s agreement hung in the air between them in the tent for a moment. Paschal seemed to realize there was more going on between the two of them than he knew, and to feel uncomfortable because of it. 

“You agree to rest,” said Laurent, “and I will let Paschal tend to any injuries he thinks need treatment.”

“You will not obscure any injuries from him,” said Damen.

Laurent nodded his agreement. Damen lowered himself onto his pallet. Lying down, his body reminded him how exhausted it was. He suppressed a groan.

Damen had thought that Laurent and Paschal would go ahead with Paschal’s examination in his tent, so that he could observe and ensure that Laurent held to his end of the bargain. 

Laurent had a different idea. “Damen needs to rest,” he told Paschal. “We’ll go to my tent.”

For a moment, as they walked out, something in Damen’s chest throbbed almost more painfully than his injured head.


	3. Chapter 3

Damen rested, and then slept, fitfully. He was woken by Paschal briefly, slept again, and then awoke alone. It was daylight outside the tent. He rose slowly, and pushed open the canvas flap in the tent doorway. Pallas was on guard outside his tent, and saluted him. Damen clapped Pallas on the shoulder.

“Exalted.”

“How are you?” Damen said.

“Well, Exalted.”

“Is there any news of Lydos?” said Damen.

Pallas brightened. “Yes, he was found in the woods.”

Damen raised his head slightly. “He is well?”

“Injured but will recover,” said Pallas.

“Good,” said Damen. 

“How are you, Exalted?” Pallas said, visibly collecting his courage to ask his king an unsolicited question.

“I am well, thank you.”

Damen asked for where Laurent was, and Pallas pointed him toward the Veretian prince’s tent. 

In the tent, Laurent was bent over a map with Vannes and Nikandros, gesturing at something. Vannes was nodding. Nikandros looked thoughtful. 

All three of them looked up when Damen entered the tent.

Damen nodded a greeting, and then focused his eyes on Laurent. “I need to speak to you alone.”

Laurent tilted his head toward the map on the table. “I’m busy.”

Damen folded his arms. “I’ll wait.”

Nikandros looked visibly uncomfortable and even Vannes seemed to wish she were somewhere else. Laurent only managed a few additional remarks before Nikandros excused himself with a short bow in Damen’s direction. Vannes followed.

Laurent pursed his lips. “Our position--”

“Are you well?” said Damen.

“I am fine.”

“Paschal tended you?”

Laurent raised his wrists in evidence; they were bandaged. “He gave me a salve for my rope burns.”

Damen swallowed. “But, I mean--” he tried to find the right words. “Govart--did he--”

Laurent made no attempt to help Damen’s stammering, and glared at him evenly. 

Damen fumbled. “When I woke, he--I couldn’t see--” Damen stopped, and then simplified. “Did he?”

Laurent waited for a moment, as though considering whether he would answer. “He stuck two fingers in me; it’s hardly a mortal injury.”

Damen persisted. “But, when you were captured at Fortaine?” Seeing how Govart had treated Laurent in the stable had worried Damen anew as to what had happened between Govart and Laurent the last time Govart had had him captive. Laurent had not been forthcoming about what had happened when they had supposed to be meeting at Charcy. Damen knew that Laurent had had a shoulder injury, but what if there had been something else?

Laurent seemed to draw a supply of vicious energy from the question. “Just because you have never yourself been fucked--”

“What--” said Damen, reeling. 

“Doesn’t mean it turns all of us into mewling kittens--”

“Wait, so at Fortaine--”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Laurent announced. And despite that they were in his tent, he turned on his heel and left.

Damen repressed a violent reaction toward the furnishings of Laurent’s tent. Knocking over the ridiculously ornate table covered with food might be momentarily satisfying, but would not help his overall situation.

He retreated back to his own tent, instead, and reclined against the pillows spread across his pallet in the Akielon fashion. He thought of calling for something to drink, but Paschal would probably object.

After he had rested a time, plagued with visions of Govart behind his eyelids, he heard Pallas speaking to someone at the entrance. Nikandros ducked in the tent entrance.

Nikandros came and folded himself onto a pillow near to Damen. He reached out a hand to Damen after a moment, and Damen took it. Nikandros closed his eyes, and squeezed his hand tightly. “I thought again I had lost you.”

Damen’s throat felt tight. He pulled Nikandros closer to him. He leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Old friend,” he said. 

“I am glad you are not dead,” said Nikandros. 

Damen breathed out, a long and slow exhale. 

“What happened?” said Nikandros. 

“What did Laurent tell you?” 

“Guion is dead. Jokaste escaped.”

Damen did not remember all of what had happened. He had not been conscious during all of it, and some of it was fuzzy in the same way the ship journey between Akielos and Vere had been when he had first been clapped into chains and sent away as a slave.

What he did remember was vivid to him, though. He could not stop thinking of it. Of Govart’s expression, of the smell of the converted stable where they’d been bound, of the way Laurent’s face had looked half-hidden by the gag. Damen wanted desperately to speak to someone about it, and would have appreciated Nikandros’s counsel, but he had the understanding that Laurent would not easily forgive him sharing the confidence.

“I killed Govart,” Damen said.

Nikandros drew his head back slightly, to see Damen’s eyes and to give him a skeptical expression. 

There was a noise near the tent entrance, and both of them turned suddenly. It was Laurent. Nikandros drew back further.

Laurent was looking between the two of them with the bland expression he had when he was studying something. Watching how Akielons fought, trying to puzzle Damen out, eyeing Makedon drinking griva. Nikandros raised himself from the cushions and excused himself again. Damen made no move to rise and Laurent made no move to sit. Laurent was wearing Veretian riding clothes, leather and form-fitting. His riding gloves had laces beginning at the wrists and going up his forearms, probably selected carefully to obscure the bandages on his wrists, since they weren’t especially well suited to the warm Akielon weather. 

“I’m sorry,” said Damen.

Laurent fixed his gaze on the brazier. “Why?” he said.

Damen gave him some of the thoughts that had crowded his head as he rested. “I should have been faster. I shouldn’t have been hit in the ambush--”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Laurent.

“Or I should have killed Govart back in the ring, in Arles--”

“I should have killed Govart on the field, when he insulted me,” said Laurent, “And I should have finished him off at Fortaine. It is as much my fault as yours. More.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Damen.

Laurent turned from the brazier to Damen. He looked implacable. “Worse things have happened to me.”

Damen leaned toward him. “What do you mean by that?”

There was another moment of silence between them. Damen fidgeted his fingers with the fringe on one of the bedpillows. Laurent was as still as a statue. “Are you well enough to ride?” said Laurent. “We have to go.”

They were repositioning their troops further into Akielos. This wasn’t the ceremonial ride they’d made along the border to Marlas, carefully coordinated with banners at equal height. This was secretive and strategic, as though Damen’s homeland were enemy territory.

In the middle of the day there was a ruckus. Damen wondered if Laurent could deal with it; his head still pained him. 

Nikandros approached, which probably meant it did require Damen’s attention. 

“Exalted,” said Nikandros, and he led Damen off to one of the supply wagons. There were ten men guarding the wagon, which seemed a surprising quantity in the middle of their camp.

“We came across them at the watering hole,” said Nikandros. “She claims they were going to the rendez-vous point.”

Damen climbed into the wagon. An Akielon woman was nursing a small baby. The child was so small he might have fit in one of Damen’s hands. He was perhaps only a few days old.

“Oh,” Damen said, sitting down hard on his heels on the bottom of the wagon. The nurse was ignoring him and had her eyes focused on the child.

There was a noise next to Damen. He turned. Laurent climbed into the wagon also. The canvas cover to the wagon fell closed behind him. 

The child seemed to have finished eating, and his lips fell off of the nurse’s breast. 

“Give him to me,” said Laurent. The nurse handed him over obligingly, and then fixed her dress to cover her breast once again, repinning it at the shoulder. Laurent held the child with both hands. He raised the baby up in front of his face, frowning.

The baby burped.

Laurent climbed out of the wagon. Damen, feeling that in the space of a few moments with the child his entire world had been reoriented in his direction, followed. 

“How do we know--” said Laurent.

“The nurse had this in her things,” said Nikandros, and produced a pin. Laurent only glanced at it. It would mean nothing to him. Laurent looked to Damen.

“Yes,” said Damen. “I mean, yes, I gave that to Jokaste. I don’t know--”

The baby wiggled in Laurent’s hands, as though he were making a grab for Laurent’s hair. 

“He seems to share his father’s taste for blonds,” said Nikandros dryly. Nikandros did a remarkable job keeping a straight face even against the look Laurent turned his direction. 

“The nurse says he is called Leon,” said Nikandros.

Laurent cradled the infant in his arms. The baby mouthed at the woven portion of his jacket as though Laurent were going to feed him. “This is very good,” said Laurent. 

“Leon,” Damen echoed, staring at the infant.

“We can change our strategy, now,” said Laurent. “We truly do hold the center--”

Damen became aware that both Laurent and Nikandros were looking at him expectantly. “I have a son,” he said.

“Perhaps the hit on his head was harder than we thought?” said Nikandros.

Laurent looked tempted to agree.

Damen was banished off to his tent to rest again. Paschal checked on his head and assured Nikandros that the shock of a new father was quite different than a worsening of a bruising of the brain. Laurent walked in and out of Damen’s tent with impunity, always cradling the child. 

Damen awoke in the middle of the night. Pallas was still on duty, and Damen dismissed him. Pallas looked hesitant. “That’s an order, soldier,” Damen said, and then softened it. “Go find Lazar or something.” Pallas smiled a bit as he left. He had dimples when he smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

The child was resting against Laurent’s chest. His eyes were closed, and Laurent could feel the child’s pulse against his own. The child’s was faster. He wondered if that were normal, for babies. Perhaps he should have had Paschal look at the child. He would do that tomorrow, he resolved. The nurse had not seemed concerned, and the child seemed fine. 

The child’s nurse had him wrapped in a piece of linen fabric. Laurent supposed that Damen would probably call it clothing. It seemed like a very undecorated towel. Laurent would find the child some proper clothing also, something befitting his status as a prince.

Laurent wondered if Damen would acknowledge the boy. He knew that Akielons did not share Veretian horror for bastards, but perhaps Damen’s experiences with his own half brother and his time in Vere were changing his mind. He thought it likely that Damen would acknowledge him. Yet he began to think about his options if Damen were to refuse. 

Perhaps Laurent himself could take the boy as his ward. He was a powerful political weapon, with his biological claim to Damen’s family and the ambiguous circumstances of his birth. It was best to keep such a weapon close by. 

Laurent also felt quite attached to the baby. He did not want to see him sent away to a nurse who wouldn’t appreciate his status or might neglect him amongst a brood of ten others. If Damen refused to acknowledge the boy as his child and provide for him himself, then Laurent would simply have to convince Damen to let Laurent do so. He pondered what he could offer Damen to persuade him, should Damen be reluctant. Delfeur? It was not as sentimental a gift as that of a child, but Laurent could will it to the boy. Laurent considered speaking to Nikandros first, and then if Nikandros were lured by the promise of Delfeur returned, perhaps he would help Laurent in his effort to win the argument with Damen. 

The baby Leon blinked open his eyes. Laurent found his own gaze captured. He blinked himself. Leon blinked again. Laurent cradled the child a bit closer, and Leon closed his eyes once again and appeared to go back to sleep. 

“Fine, you shall have Delfeur,” Laurent promised the top of the sleeping baby’s head. 

There was a noise at the tent entrance. It was Damen. Laurent did not want to move; moving might wake the child. Damen took in the familiar interior of Laurent’s tent with a glance and then approached where Laurent was sitting on the bed. Laurent could tell the moment that Damen registered that Laurent was holding the child.

Damen settled himself cautiously next to Laurent. It was presumptuous of him to do so without asking, but it was typical of Damen, who had the manners of a king and no skill at deception to hide them. Laurent would raise Leon to be more cautious.

Damen reached a hand out, a finger hovering just above the child’s hand where it rested on Laurent’s chest.

“Can I?” he whispered.

Laurent supposed he could permit Damen to touch the baby. Laurent nodded. 

Damen lowered his finger to brush against the child’s hand. Laurent watched. The child’s hand was so small, and Damen’s hand was so large. Damen marveled at the tiny fingers spread against Laurent’s jacket, the miniature thumb.

“He’s perfect,” said Laurent quietly, but with triumph. 

Damen nodded. He leaned in closer to the child, smelling his hair. He was very close to Laurent, and Laurent felt very aware of the child between them.

“I am not sure how I can feel so much for him,” said Damen. His voice was bewildered. “When several days back I did not know he existed.” Laurent sympathized but did not say anything.

Damen stroked the soft black hair on the infant’s head. He murmured the child’s name quietly. “Leon. It seems a strange name for a prince.”

Laurent raised his eyes from where Damen’s hand was on the child’s head to Damen’s face. He secured the child and sat up straight on the bed. Damen watched.

“You acknowledge him?” said Laurent, thinking back to his earlier planning.

Damen moved his eyes from Leon to Laurent’s face. “Yes.”

Laurent needed this to be further clarified. “You will raise him as your son?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not afraid that someday he will be jealous of his true-born younger brother?” Laurent refrained from commenting that Damen seemed well on his way to a multiplicity of bastards to threaten the stability of his kingdom.

“I am not sure I will have any true born children,” said Damen. 

Laurent needed Damen to be more specific. “So you would give him your inheritance?” 

“I have not thought so far ahead,” said Damen. “It is only that he is here, and I am not sure how I could do anything but care for him the best I can.”

Laurent contemplated this for a moment. Leon made a snuffling noise in his sleep, and both of them looked at him for a moment.

“I was not sure you would acknowledge him,” said Laurent, offering some of his earlier thinking. 

Damen was still staring at Leon. “Perhaps someday our children could play together,” he offered. It was a sweet thought, Laurent acknowledged, except for the taint running through his family that Damen seemed blind to. “I will be jealous when you marry your Patran princess.”

There was no need for Damen to be jealous of that, it was not going to happen. 

Laurent placed a hand on Damen’s arm, and then transferred the sleeping baby to him. Damen’s eyes widened. “Laurent!” he whispered. He looked more frightened than he had when they were ambushed. 

Laurent leaned in to his side as he shifted the baby, and he stayed pressed close to Damen after Leon was safely in Damen’s embrace. Damen took up a lot of space on the bed. Leon seemed even smaller curled in Damen’s arm than he had when Laurent had been holding him. The sleeve of Laurent’s jacket had ridden up and the gold cuff Damen had placed there was visible. 

“I am not going to marry a Patran princess or a daughter of the empire,” said Laurent.

Damen’s pupils were very large in the dark of the tent. “It’s your duty to continue your line,” said Damen.

Leon had grasped one of his fists around Laurent’s finger, and Laurent kept his hand close to the baby.

“No,” said Laurent. “My line ends with me.” He had never told that to anyone before, but it seemed right to confess it now, to Damen, with the child between them. 

“And your inheritance?” said Damen, echoing Laurent’s word from earlier.

Laurent was still leaning up against his shoulder. Laurent had abandoned Akielon styles of clothing again with the conclusion of their deception, but Damen’s arms and legs were bare. Damen’s body felt very warm. “Perhaps you will have an extra son to loan me,” said Laurent.

Damen swallowed. “Laurent, I would gladly share anything I have with you.” There was an interesting quality to Damen’s gaze on him, something similar to the delicate and bewildered way he had regarded the baby. 

Damen turned his head toward Laurent. Laurent leaned in closer, careful not to squish Leon. Their lips met. Laurent supposed that an offer to share anything he had was as good as a marriage proposal. It was sweet and Laurent ought to have anticipated it, but Damen was consistently good at surprising him. 

Laurent moved until he was across from Damen on the bed, and looked at him. Laurent leaned back on his hands and tilted his head to one side. “Set Leon on the pallet.” He let his eyes promise more if Damen followed his instructions. He felt very fond toward Damen at this moment. They were unstoppable, now. They had the child. Damen had the military expertise and the troops. Laurent was there to spy for traps. They held all of the key forts. All Laurent’s uncle could do at the moment was bake in Ios amongst the barbarians and wait for them to come. Laurent was inclined to make him wait. He did not think relations between his uncle and Kastor were likely to be improving at the same rate his own were improving with Damen. 

There should be no secrets between him and Damen, Laurent thought suddenly. Nothing that his uncle could use to drive a wedge between them or cause Damen to doubt him.

There were probably dozens of plans he must now confess to Damen. And--perhaps one quite important thing. After, Laurent told himself, giving himself a short reprieve. He would speak of it, after. 

Damen was hesitating with Leon still in his arms. “Should we call for his nurse?”

Laurent laughed at Akielon shyness. 

Damen looked serious. “Laurent,” he said, and the tone of his voice had deepened in the way it did when he was thinking of sex. “I want to,” he said, “But we do not have to, if you--”

Damen was no longer speaking of calling for Leon’s nurse.

Laurent straightened slightly and flattened his lips into a line. “In Arles,” he said, drawing a comparison. “You fought Govart in the ring. He tried to rape you. Do you think of it now?”

Damen was visibly surprised. “No.”

“So why do you seem convinced I would think of it?”

Damen frowned, looking down at the baby still in his arms. “I don’t think we should speak of this with Leon here.”

Laurent waved a hand. “He’s asleep.”

Damen freed one hand from his careful hold on Leon and used it to take Laurent’s hand and hold it. “I want to kill every man who has touched you in ways you don’t like.” 

Perhaps there was to be no reprieve, Laurent thought. He took in a deep breath. He could not bring himself to put his eyes on Damen, and he left them on Leon. His hand was warm in Damen’s grip. “Let’s focus on my uncle.”

Damen did not understand. He was thinking of the murder attempt, or of Laurent’s uncle as the instigator of the attack by Govart, or of nothing. Laurent did not know. The honor for family in Damen’s mind was so strong that he could not see it.

Laurent felt cold, suddenly, though the tent was still warm. 

Laurent was more explicit. “My uncle,” he said. “You know of his taste for boys.”

Laurent could sense a growing tension in Damen’s body. His hold on Leon remained gentle. Damen could tell that something was wrong, though he did not yet know where he was being led.

“When I was thirteen,” said Laurent. “I was perfectly to his tastes.”

The realization was slow, for Damen. “He wouldn’t dare--”

Laurent interrupted him. “There was no one to stop him,” he said, carefully not mentioning Auguste’s name between them. “There was no one except him, and I did not want to be alone.”

For a long moment Laurent looked at Leon, and then he raised his eyes to meet Damen’s.

Damen understood, now. Damen’s expression was a rictus of pain and horror. 

Laurent had a moment of fear. It was a familiar fear, one that had haunted him for the past seven years. He was afraid, suddenly, that when someone knew--when Damen knew, when anyone knew--that Laurent would never be able to command their respect again. That Damen would not look on him with desire, again, that the twisting in his face was disgust and that Laurent was its object.

He had thought, after Govart, that Damen would not think that way. Damen had been angry with Govart, of course, but he had not seemed to think Laurent worse for the experience. Damen fussed a bit much; Laurent had just been happy to escape without another inconvenient shoulder wound. 

Damen closed his eyes, overwhelmed. Laurent bit his lip, waiting. “I will kill him,” Damen said.

Laurent felt his own expression relax, slightly. 

Damen still appeared furious. There was something vaguely humorous about his expression and the tender way he held the child in his arms. His gaze was distant, resting someplace far outside the tent, in the south toward Ios. He looked as though he were revisiting in his mind all of his memories of Laurent’s uncle, all of the things that he had overheard, and hearing them again now, the echoes having a new meaning for him. 

“Yes,” said Laurent. His voice brought Damen back to the present of the tent. “I want you to kill him.”

“I will,” Damen vowed.

“Good,” Laurent repeated, feeling almost giddy with relief. “I am not sure that I can, and it is worse because I think my uncle knows that about me, and he will use the knowledge against me at the worst moment--”

“I can kill him.”

Laurent nodded. Damen looked grim. Laurent wondered if Damen had contemplated a similar problem and struggled to imagine standing in front of and killing his own brother. There was no need for Damen to worry about that, though. Laurent had a plan for it. Damen was with him, and they were going to ruin his uncle and Damen’s jealous half-brother, and Leon was with them, and Laurent was going to create a single wonderful kingdom for Leon to grow up in and nothing was going to stop them. 

“I don’t want there to be anything between us,” said Laurent, honestly.

Damen looked down at Leon, still sleeping and held in the space between their bodies.

“Set him off to the side,” said Laurent.

“I still think we should call for his nurse,” said Damen.

“No,” said Laurent. “He belongs with us.”

**Author's Note:**

> [like or reblog this fic on tumblr](http://josselinkohl.tumblr.com/post/143698203642/i-posted-chapter-1-of-the-terrible-govart-fic-now), [all of the author's Captive Prince fanfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin/works?fandom_id=3516977), [come follow me on tumblr](http://josselinkohl.tumblr.com/)


End file.
